


four wings, all grey

by LieutenantSaavik



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Character, Idiots in Love, M/M, established relationship (sort of), overuse of italics but you know how it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 18:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19323292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LieutenantSaavik/pseuds/LieutenantSaavik
Summary: “May I stay the night?” Aziraphale asks.“Yeah,” says Crowley, and smiles as if there aren’t six thousand years of ache behind the word. “You can stay forever, actually.”





	four wings, all grey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mirawonderfulstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirawonderfulstar/gifts).



“Mm,” remarks Aziraphale, “It’s certainly unconventional decor.”

“Well,” says Crowley, and decides it’s a good idea to stop right there.

“It’s an angel and a demon having sex,” Aziraphale states, as if he’s just making sure.

Crowley starts. “No,” he says hurriedly, and he isn’t lying, exactly. “It represents good and evil wrestling with evil triumphing.”

“That might be what it represents, but that’s not what it depicts, dear fellow.”

Crowley mutters something about ‘pointless distinction, really’ and follows it up with “It doesn’t even look like us.”

“Oh no,” Aziraphale assures him, “I wasn’t equating this to our relationship. Merely remarking on how the subject matter of this stature is, er, unorthodox.”

“Yeah,” says Crowley, “Unorthodox. That’s me. Very good at being that, yeah.”

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley’s eyes flick up to him and then down to the floor. He doesn’t have his sunglasses on and momentarily wishes he did.

“Um,” he says, and looks at Aziraphale’s eyes and lips and then at the floor again.

“Something’s wrong,” Aziraphale decides aloud. He lays a hand on the side of Crowley’s face and Crowley flinches, actually flinches, takes a full step backward and stares.

 

They’ve kissed before.

 

The first time was a week ago and they’ve done it every day since, getting progressively better or at least not as abysmal. Aziraphale loves kissing Crowley, loves his wiry frame and his energy and his _eagerness_ , because Crowley is, for lack of a better phrase, Into It.

 

Until now.

 

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale asks again, and then, “Let me help.”

Crowley shakes his head and shoves one hand deep in his pocket, in a fist. “I love you,” he says matter-of-factly, “Like anything. Like everything, really. Everything and a half to me, that’s you, angel. You know it, I know it, whole blessed world does.”

Aziraphale blushes faintly. “I’m not sure about that.”

“I am.”

His eyes say, Don’t doubt this. Don’t doubt me.

Aziraphale doesn’t doubt him.

“May I touch you?” he asks.

Crowley nods, and Aziraphale places a hand on his shoulder and slowly tilts Crowley’s head up so they’re nose to nose. Crowley doesn’t make eye contact.

“I love you too,” Aziraphale tells him, “And I love loving you.”

Crowley shakes his head. And he is, for a moment, speechless. His hand crawls back out of his pocket as he kisses Aziraphale’s lips, but when the angel’s hands go to his waist, he steps back.

“The whole sex business,” he says vaguely, because he doesn’t know how to say it and will therefore say it wrong, “I never got the memo.”

Aziraphale makes some sort of quizzical noise in the back of his throat. Crowley swallows hard.

“Be fruitful and multiply, that whole... deal,” he goes on. “Nope, not me, not ever.” He’s babbling now, he’s sure of it. “Adam and Eve going at it right under the tree like that, and I just thought, what?”

Aziraphale huffs amusement. “You’re gay, Crowley. There’s an obvious reason for that.”

“No,” says Crowley, and he really has to spit it out this time, “I don’t have sex.”

“That’s all right. Lots of people don’t have sex.”

“Yeah, but—” Crowley frowns, “Human children don’t. Dead people don’t. Whales ’n dolphins ’n gorillas do, normal human people do, _demons do_ , and I don’t.”

“You haven’t found a willing partner?”

“No,” says Crowley flatly, “I don’t want to.”

“Not ever?”

“Not ever. I almost did once, twice, four times, Aziraphale, and as soon as I got close I just—I couldn’t. And I liked them! I did! I wasn’t in love with them; I’m human, they’re demons; I couldn’t be been. Er. The other way around. You know what it’s like; I’m sure you’re experienced.”

He looks across at his counterpart, guarded as if waiting for Aziraphale to challenge the assertion.

“What makes you think I am?”

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Crowley informs him, suddenly acerbic, “But no one goes to discreet gentlemen’s clubs just to dance.”

Aziraphale doesn’t deny it, but he doesn’t confirm it either. He doesn’t speak at all, just measures his breaths carefully. Crowley has to explain more of this clearly monumental issue and he definitely would rather not. But Aziraphale wants—no, _needs_ —to understand him.

Crowley presses on.

“Wrath, I can swing it. Phone lines tangled, a million angry humans taking it out on whatever’s stupid or weak enough to let them; commendation and a half. Sloth, nailed it; I slept through a century. Greed, they made that on their own but I can take credit for it. Pride; that’s the easiest of ’em all, I just gotta wait ’till June. Gluttony’s not so hot, but I manage. Lust?” he shakes his head. “No headway. Been asked about it a couple times; I say the eyes are too off-putting. Can’t tempt anyone in that direction. Can’t even try.” He looks up. “And it’s not a consent thing. I wouldn’t—I never—”

“I know,” says Aziraphale. “I know.”

Crowley nods. “I just don’t think I can,” he says with finality and something like relief. “Just can’t...” he does something with his fingers that looks  _vaguely_ like some sort of insertion. “Can’t do that. Or...” he corrects himself. “Don’t want to.”

“Crowley...”

“It is,” Crowley asserts, still staring at Aziraphale like something starved, “A major failing in a demon. In anyone, really. Everyone falls in love and does it right, you know? And it’s missing from me. And I don’t know if I left it there,” and he points Upward with a tiny, delicate flick of the wrist, “But it’s gone. Something’s all twisted up.” He awkwardly reaches for Aziraphale’s hand, then thinks better of it. “I love you more than anything else,” he says bitterly, “And I can’t even show you.”

There’s a long, resonant silence. The air seems suddenly cold.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says haltingly, “I adore you.”

Crowley jitters. “So?”

Aziraphale locks eyes with Crowley, takes the demon’s hand. “I can’t tell you,” he continues, rubbing his thumb back and forth across Crowley’s knuckles, “How much I love you, because you know, Crowley. You _know_.”

He brings the hand up between them and kisses it softly, still staring deep into Crowley’s face. Crowley reaches for him, wraps a hand around the back of Aziraphale’s neck, pulls on him. The angel leans in.

Crowley does know. Finally, _peacefully_ , he knows.

Their foreheads bump and come to rest against each other. Half of Aziraphale’s face is in shadow. The other half is so close and so familiar and so _loved_ that it’s blinding. Crowley closes his eyes.

Aziraphale brushes a thumb across Crowley’s lashes, which are long and black and oddly wet. “I love you, every part of you, and I was foolish, Crowley,” he murmurs, “Foolish not to reach for you before.”

Crowley nods. Holds on tighter. For another moment, there is silence.

“I want nothing from you,” Aziraphale says finally. “Nothing, Crowley. Not ever. I want to love you, as long and as deeply as you let me. That is all.”

He draws away, stands back, lets Crowley stand on his own.

“You mean it,” Crowley mutters.

“Of course.”

“So I don’t have to—”

“You don’t have to touch me, or kiss me, or—”

“I want to, dammit,” Crowley growls, and he springs at Aziraphale, grasping him around the middle and pulling him into a hug so tight and long it’s convenient Aziraphale doesn’t need to breathe. Aziraphale sags into him and they support each other, swaying back and forth slightly on the too-hard, too-shiny floor.

“Kisses?” Aziraphale asks tentatively, once they’ve separated. “On the mouth?”

Crowley nods hungrily and goes in for another one, which Aziraphale readily gives. “ _Yes._ ”

“And—embraces, hugs?”

“Yes.”

“May I hold your hand?”

“Please do,” says Crowley, and holds Aziraphale’s.

“Just no sex?”

“No sex,” Crowley confirms. “And it’s—is it all right with you?”

“It’s tickety-boo,” Aziraphale tells him without a trace of irony. “But I hope you know that there is nothing missing from you.”

“Yeah,” says Crowley, “I mean, yeah there is. There has to be, really. ’M a fallen angel, after all.”

“But you’re—” Aziraphale starts.

Crowley holds up a warning palm. “If you start trying to preach that ‘you are wonderfully made’ bullshit to me, I’m going to vomit. _On_ you.”

“You made yourself, Crowley,” says Aziraphale impatiently. “You know She has nothing to do with it now. You’re _you_ , dear fellow. Nothing but and nothing less.” He tries to keep the irritation out of his voice. “How could there be anything wrong with you?”

“I’m a demon, Aziraphale,” Crowley sighs. “It’s what I do. ‘Wrong’ is the _point_.”

“There’s no point,” says Aziraphale flatly. He softens his voice. “Not anymore.”

Crowley stops short and eyes him. “What?”

“No crux, no destiny, no prophecy.” Aziraphale shakes his head. “Just you.”

“Just me,” Crowley repeats, and refuses to say something about dolphins.

“Well. You and that hideous statue behind you. And me, I suppose.” He straightens his tartan bowtie. “May I stay the night?”

“Yeah,” says Crowley, and smiles as if there aren’t six thousand years of ache behind the word. “You can stay forever, actually.”

“I’d like to.”

They come together again, and hold each other for a longer time. Crowley’s forehead is warm on Aziraphale’s shoulder; Aziraphale’s hands are warm on Crowley’s back. They are loved and in love, and there’s really nothing all that cosmic about it.

Except.

Except the floor underneath them, too hard and too dark, reflects four wings, all grey.

**Author's Note:**

> four wings. all gay


End file.
